


I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dwarf Smaug, First Love, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Memories, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Smut, The Hobbit Big Bang Challenge 2015, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Smaug is a Dwarf, Thorin has a much more personal reason to defeat him and reclaim Erebor. Their relationship was passionate but clandestine - and when they're found out, forbidden. Smaug does not take kindly to this and returns years later to tear down Erebor and earn his title as the Dragon.</p><p>Decades later a company of Dwarves set out to the Lonely Mountain, managing to pick up a Hobbit ‘burglar’ on the way. Bilbo does not quite believe that he's worth a place in the Company (or by Thorin's side)... and is unaware that he is to be sent into the lair of someone who is not actually a dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alkjira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/gifts), [suchanadorer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/gifts), [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/gifts), [drakyrna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakyrna/gifts).



> Hhhhhhhhhhh it's being posted!  
> Thank yous to:  
> suchanadorer, without whom this whole fic wouldn't exist  
> alkjira, who is a source of endless patience and loveliness  
> lorien & drakyrna, the amazing artists who've put up with my forgetfulness and are in turn sources of inspiration  
> YOU for reading this.
> 
> Note: the 'underage' tag is for the fact that when they started their relationship, Thorin was in his 40s while Smaug was double his age; I see 40 as being in mid teens? Perhaps even a little younger than that. Dwarf coming-of-age here is about ~90 years of age.
> 
> I've been wanting to share this fic for some time; it feels odd that most of it was finished before I signed up for the Big Bang. But thanks to my artists, there've been quite a few additions that will make this fic better and more rounded. *crosses fingers* Let's see how it goes.
> 
> (Title from the Ink Spots' song of the same name.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter, by Lorien --> [[HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3985369/chapters/8946523)]  
> Art for this chapter, by drakyrna --> [[HERE](http://drakyrna-art.tumblr.com/post/119623859755/the-first-in-my-third-set-of-illustrations-for-the)]
> 
> Due to the changed timeline, Thorin and Smaug met in 2786, got together in 2792, and ended their relationship in 2813.  
> Smaug's attack on Erebor was in 2825.
> 
> Additional warnings/tags for this chapter: None.
> 
> (note: I meant to post this earlier but for school and driving back. And then I fell asleep. So I'm posting for now, and will comb over the chapter tomorrow. I'm so sorry.)

_I don't want to set the world on fire_

_I just want to start a flame in your heart_

_In my heart I have but one desire_

_And that one is you, no other will do._

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin’s shoulders bore the weight of blame for the attack on Erebor and the subsequent misery that befell his people.

 

It was no small burden, but Thorin carried it all the same since he knew more than most that it was completely and wholly his fault. All that destruction, all that death, all that loss – all on _his_ hands. He sat now in his empty forge, cold because the fire had been put out long hours ago. His breath was visible in the air, and he stared at his calloused palms and fingers. Could somehow see the blood that coated them, ‘watching’ as it dripped dripped dripped onto the half-swept floor.

 

He’d been young, barely in his forties, when Smaug had come; a mere princeling intent on doing right by his family and the people of Erebor. There was nothing more important than his duty and showing everyone that he was truly worthy of his status as Heir. Nothing more important than serving the King: his grandfather, then his father.

 

But then there was Smaug. Thorin could not have predicted the Dwarf and what would follow.

 

Smaug had been larger than life and in some ways terrifying, all red-hot fire and gold scale armour. He was Thorin’s senior, having dabbled with being a scholar and a jeweller, bringing his love of riddles and gems when he became a warrior. They had been only sparring partners at first. Smaug had been the only Dwarf to come close to Thorin’s skill with a blade. With all the time they spent together within the training rooms and increasingly without, it wasn’t long after that they becomes friends and then… more.

 

Oh, so much more. There’d been teasing fingers and strong arms, wicked teeth and aching kisses – and then the time stolen throughout the day, sometimes long hours through the night filled with passionate words, promises for the future.

 

Thorin wrenched himself away. He could recall when their trysts were found out. It wasn’t that Smaug had so noble blood and neither was it that he’d been a ‘mere soldier’. These were not reasons that existed in Dwarven society, royal born or no. Thráin and Frís simply had not approved of Smaug, and that was that. They had not trusted Smaug’s intentions especially in view of the age difference, and Thorin respected his parents’ wishes. He ended the relationship.

 

Yes, it had been unfair to Smaug, cast aside in favour of obligation, but no one could call the red-haired Dwarf’s reaction anything but disproportionate. He had flown into a horrific rage, cursing Thorin and his family. The kindest insult was calling Thorin a treasure-obsessed liar. He had not heeded any pleas, instead promising bloody revenge that would rip out Thorin’s heart in kind. He disappeared for long years, only to return with an army of zealots and fire at his fingertips.

 

Frís had perished, as did hundreds of other Dwarves, and Erebor had been lost. All because Thorin, blinded by love, hadn’t been able to see as his parents had. He had not seen how evil had twisted Smaug’s being and how his feelings for Thorin were false as pyrite.

 

Exiled and homeless as the Ereboreans were, forced into a world that looked down on Dwarves (metaphorically and literally), Thráin had little choice but to try retaking Moria. This choice was to be a mistake; the great battle that followed could only be called a bloodbath. Azanulbizar had left so many dead and how could that be anything but Thorin’s fault as well? It was his doing that had caused them to be driven out of their home, and even if no one had expected the sheer number of Orcs that now filled their ancient kingdom, he was equally responsible for even more deaths; he had realised this as he stood bloodied and battered in front of his father’ and brother’s pyres.

 

It took Dís’ gentle touch to his cheek to draw him from his maudlin thoughts. Thorin didn’t know how many times she’d repeated his name before he’d finally heard her. What had she thought when he hadn’t answered?

 

“What is it?” he asked, and almost winced at how cracked and disused his voice sounded. He had lingered in his thoughts too long.

 

“You did not come to supper. I worried.” She spoke carefully, like she wasn’t sure how to handle her oldest (and only) brother. “We worried.”

 

Thorin ducked his head, avoiding her brown eyes. Dís was right to remind him that he could not shut himself away. He was as responsible for Fíli and Kíli as she was (and as Víli had been). There was no longer any need to bathe or feed them, no longer any need to tell stories or sing lullabies, but he should have at least been present to listen to their day’s adventures. He should not have been wallowing in self-pity.

 

However, he could not escape the fact that it was very easy to see that they were only a little older than he’d been at the fall of Erebor. He saw himself in his sister-sons; impulsive, keen, naïve. All these traits he had given up, having learned a bitter lesson, but he was reminded of his past failings every time he met Fíli’s blue eyes or Kíli’s brown ones. Every time.

 

He couldn’t admit that to Dís. He couldn’t admit that her sons’ existence unwittingly tortured his consciousness with memories that had nothing to do with them. He couldn’t be that cruel to her. “I became lost in my thoughts. I am sorry I missed the meal.”

 

Dís searched his face for a long moment. He had no guesses as to what she saw, but it was enough for her to sit on the bench beside him. “You are thinking of the Dragon.”

 

Thorin stiffened. He did _not_ want to discuss this. “Dís –”

 

“You are blaming yourself. Again.”

 

He found himself growing irritated at her dismissive tone of voice. He did not appreciate being talked down to, especially by his sister, and he did not appreciate its use in conjunction with bringing up his biggest mistake. “It is hard not to blame myself, when it is overwhelmingly clear to all that –”

 

“I blame myself.” Her interruption was quiet, sure, and made Thorin’s jaw slack. “I understand some of what you feel – I can bear some of the burden.”

 

His teeth met with a click as he ceased gaping, his eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead as he frowned. “Dís, you were younger than I was – barely out of your _forties_. Still a Dwarfling.” He shook his head, speaking over her objections. “More than that, you were, you are in no way responsible for what happened between…” Thorin swallowed and tried again. “Between –”

 

She put her fingers on his knee, silencing him. “I was the one who informed ‘ _Amad_ and ‘ _Adad_.”

 

Thorin… did not know what to say to that.

 

Dís looked down, as if studying the pale green linen she wore. “My lessons finished early that day. Since Frerin was still occupied with his, I decided to go find you to help with my axe training.” She huffed lightly. “You remember how awful I was; trying to lift it over my head sent me sprawling every time.”

 

He did not laugh, did not smile, did not see how she could find humour at a time like this.

 

“When I first caught sight of you and – of you both, I thought you were properly fighting. I can still remember how he’d had you pinned, and I thought you’d been flushed with _anger_.” This time she laughed, but it was full of self-deprecation. “I also thought I would swoop in with my axe and save you… except you managed to flip him over before I could think to move. Even from where I was standing I could see you both smile, before –”

 

“Enough,” Thorin ordered coldly. Her description of that day was unnecessary. He only wished he couldn’t still bring to mind what had happened in all its lurid detail. He only wished he could forget.

 

Unheeding of his warning, Dís continued. “I can remember being blinded by jealously and rage enough to take my breath. Before I knew it I was crying into ‘ _Amad_ ’s shoulder about how you no longer loved us.” She swallowed, stare now fixed on a point on the wall. “I am the reason you were told to sever ties with him… it follows that I am the reason for all the misfortune that came after.”

 

Thorin felt a terrible rage build up inside his chest, filling him to the brim with the urge to shout at her sister for her idiocy and all the torture she had put him through… and then he let it rush away in one great exhale. There was no use being angry, no use forgetting himself and losing control. As he had pointed out himself, she’d only been fifty at the time and had made decisions as well as she could. It was not her fault. “Why have you carried this secret for so long?”

 

“I was never brave enough to tell you.” Dís eyelids fluttered, skirt bunched in her free hand. “I am sorry for my actions, Thorin, even if I do not deserve your forgiveness.”

 

“ _Nadadith_. You did no wrong.” He settled his fingers over hers. “You merely quickened happenings that were well on their way.”

 

“Even so – if I had only kept my tongue, your association with him may have progressed to a natural end,” Dís argued. “Not the massacre that happened.”

 

Thorin winced as images of said massacre slashed through his mind; images of dead loved ones and blood seeping into his clothes – of golden eyes and glinting teeth. “No, Dís. The only way that could have been avoided is if I’d never set eyes on Smaug –” (ah, why had he uttered that name out loud? It tasted foul in his mouth, calling pricking tears to his eyes) “–, or if I’d never succumbed to his wiles. Perhaps not even then.”

 

Dís shook her head – she was as stubborn as Thorin was, as stubborn as Frerin had been. “You insist that I do not place blame on myself, yet you heap it upon yourself. Do you not see how that is _wrong_?”

 

He looked away, but she turned his head back to face her, grasping his chin so she could look into his eyes. “You must understand, _nadad_. You do not want me to torture myself with guilt you think is undue – is it so impossible for me to want the same with you?”

 

No, it was not impossible… but unlike her, his guilt was not undue.

 

“Can you promise me you will forgive yourself? That you will start, or at least try?”

 

He could not. He could not compromise on such a key component of his character. His blame wasn’t imagined or misplaced – it was a truth of the world, much like the way water was wet and mithril was strong and death was constant. Such things were not challenged.

 

And yet… he looked into his sister’s face and saw the worry and the love and the pain. It wasn’t an expression he’d ever wanted her to have; he was supposed to protect her, not hurt her. He could not bear to hurt her more.

 

“I will try,” Thorin lied, and watched Dís sag with relief. “I promise I will try.” In truth, he would be trying not to hate himself all the more.

 

“That is all I ask,” she said, and although they did not embrace, the gratitude was clear in every syllable she uttered. They sat in silence for a moment more, brother and sister of a disgraced and destroyed kingdom, and then Dís rose to her feet. All traces of her earlier disquiet were gone with an ease that made Thorin wonder how often his sister had been sad without his knowledge. “Come, Thorin. There is someone who requests your presence.”

 

“Fíli and Kíli?” he asked, puzzled. If they had indeed wanted to see him, they could have fetched him from the forge. He imagined that she had come instead of them because she had insisted; she was the most diplomatic in their family after all, even if she hadn’t meant to confess what she had.

 

“They are abed… or should be.” Her lips quirked. “No, the one who would speak with you is named Gandalf.”

 

Like lightning and thunder, recognition shot through Thorin, swiftly followed by an acute sense of foreboding. He knew of Gandalf the Grey, named Tharkûn. The Wizard had had dealings with Erebor in the past, and had been seen in the Iron Hills and Ered Luin. He had a wily way about him. Most Dwarves knew he was not to be crossed, powerful as Wizards always were, but also to treat him with caution and not to agree to _anything_ without as much information as possible.

 

What in Mahal’s name could he want with Thorin?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bounces* What'd you think?


	2. Memory 01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's memory of the destruction of Dale and the conquer of Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter will be interspaced with memories, exploring the relationship Thorin and Smaug had.  
> year: T.A. 2825  
> ages: Thorin is 79, Smaug is 122.
> 
> Additional tags/warnings for this chapter: Violence.
> 
> P.S. I'm sorry this is a day late, I genuinely thought I'd posted it already. Clearly studying is a bad thing. The next chapter will be up tomorrow, no worries about that.

The attack was over in minutes. 

Thorin had been thrown against a pillar. There was a pain in his side that spiked on every breath he drew – it did not feel as bad as when he’d broken his ribs some years ago, so perhaps they were merely bruised. It was still enough to wind him, and while he had struggled onto hands and knees, it took him a moment to realise that someone was standing in front of him.

Smaug’s face was calm, in fact almost kind when he leaned down to offer his hand. 

When Thorin took it, it was almost too easy to slip into the past. Even this simple touch had his heart beating painfully in his chest. Or was that actual pain in his chest from another, physical cause? His throat felt tight. Golden eyes considered him carefully and watched what he would do.

No matter how much his heart wanted to ignore what had happened, it was impossible to forget all that surrounded them. Shouts and screams were scattered amongst the clash of weapons. In the corners of Thorin’s vision he could see the warriors fighting and the commonfolk running (and hopefully escaping). Flickering fire caught the gold of Smaug’s eyes, caught the blood spattered across his face and armour.

It’d taken next to no effort for Smaug to force open the stone and iron-reinforced doors without battering rams. He probably had enough magic to level most of the mountain and definitely enough to easily kill Thorin where he stood but for now they stood together amidst death and destruction, doing nothing. 

Thorin couldn’t help but be reminded of his grandfather’s tales of Cold Drakes taking the Grey Mountains. This was not the same – if they’d been attacked by a dragon, it would be fire instead of ice wielding – but there were similarities. Any army would have had a hard time defeating a great worm with swordlike teeth in powerful jaws and claws able to rend bodies and stone and metal with ease. 

Smaug was almost akin to one of those vile creatures, what with his scale armour and red fire, but what he lacked in size was made up for by the forces he led. Thorin did not know what they were, beings shaped like Dwarves but twisted and deformed and ugly, growling without words while attacking armed and unarmed Dwarves alike. Their weapons were badly forged but effective enough and when they failed, the creatures would throw themselves forward to bite and gouge at the Ereboreans.

“Do you like my army?” Smaug asked, running his thumb over Thorin’s knuckles to catch his attention. “I’ll admit that they are not as well formed as I would like, but they produce the right results.”

And Thorin knew of those results. He pulled away from Smaug. “I saw what you did to Dale.” When they’d heard the alarms, those closest to the walls had rushed to look over the plains to the city. Thorin had arrived in time to see half the city engulfed in flames and screaming Men running from their once-home. Going in the opposite direction was a vast army; at that moment, no one had known that Smaug headed them. “You destroyed it.”

“Only _mostly_.” One shoulder shrugged. “There are some buildings still standing.”

Thorin swallowed. “Why did you have to do that?”

“Practice. I wanted to give you my all, Thorin. You know that.” He pouted. “Once upon a time, you wanted it as well.”

“I do not want this! I do not want you to –”

Smaug’s expression changed immediately. “You don’t want me?”

“That’s… that’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you mean.”

“What I mean is that you… this is not you. You are kind and fair,” Thorin pleaded. “I knew, I know that you are not this Dwarf.”

“You know nothing. You’ve always known nothing. You never bothered to know.”

Smaug’s accusations cut deep, just like they had all these years they’d shared together. Even now Thorin didn’t mean to disappoint the other Dwarf in any way. “But I did! Please, I know at least some of you – I know enough to ask that you let these Dwarves leave. They have done nothing to you. I am at fault. Punish me.”

“And why can’t I do both?”

Smaug waved one hand and a great, invisible force fell upon a nearby battalion. Some snapped their necks and fell, some were _crushed_ , but others managed to dodge the blow. They had their weapons raised but there was nothing _physical_ for them to fight. Smaug seemed not to care that some of his forces were caught in his attack as well. He just snorted derisively and balled his fingers into a fist, raising it over his head.

Desperate, Thorin snatched Smaug’s hand, holding it with both of his. “Just stop, stop. You've hurt so many people –”

“You value their lives over mine?”

“I –”

Smaug broke from Thorin’s grip and his hands closed like vices, like claws on Thorin’s upper arms. “Am I still not good enough? Now when I have an entire mountain to give you, I am still not worthy?”

Thorin somehow felt tiny, felt like Smaug was towering over him. “This is not your mountain to give.”

There was no warning; the back of Smaug’s hand smashed into Thorin’s cheekbone. He gazed down dispassionately. “A shiny stone does not a King make.” Fire bloomed in one palm, first red and orange, then blue and white. “You will learn this in time. Let me give you your first lesson.”

Thorin found his sword, ignoring the dull pain in his side and the sharper sting in his face.

A small smirk found Smaug’s lips when he saw Thorin had risen to his feet. “Oh, so you still have fight in you. Very good. You know how much I love that, my Prince.”

For the first time, those words made Thorin’s skin crawl. “You know I can beat you. I’ve done it before.”

“Ah, but was that by your own skill? Or were those gifts from me?”

“You lie.” Thorin had never considered their practice duels as easy. He did not – could not – doubt his own aptitude with swords. Not when he had to defeat Smaug now. He did not delude himself into thinking the attack would be over if he did so, but Smaug’s forces _might_ scatter. And there would no longer be magic to tip the scales in Smaug’s favour. Very helpful.

Thorin tightened his grip. For his family, for his friends, for his people, he could not fail.

“I only lie when I think you cannot handle truth.” Smaug advanced slowly. “I have only ever protected you.”

“And now?” Thorin did not quite have the nerve to attack. “Now you want to kill me.”

“I do not want to kill you. You do not want to kill me.” He licked his lips. “Have you so quickly cast our love aside?”

“I –”

“Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? You already have.” Smaug grasped Thorin’s blade with his free hand, palm digging into the edges and blood dripping from his wounds. “I have wondered in the time we’ve been apart why you stopped caring for me.”

Thorin had wondered the same from time to time, not that he would admit it. Not even to Smaug. In fact he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, not even to disengage his sword from Smaug’s hold. “I didn’t –”

“Perhaps you never cared at all. Perhaps I was a game to you.”

“Never. Smaug –” Thorin went to cast his sword aside, but Smaug did so for him. He sucked in a shocked gasp when that bloodied hand closed around his throat. Smaug’s nails pierced into his skin, five separate points of pain. “Don’t –” he wheezed, “don’t do this.”

“You can’t tell me what to do. I am not one of your subjects. I am not _yours_.” Smaug lifted his other hand, bringing the flame close to Thorin’s face. Thorin tried to twist away but was caught in Smaug’s strong hold. “You made that quite clear.”

Thorin could not remember much of what followed; he was aware only of pain. He might have called out but no one answered. His injuries were extensive but only catalogued after everything had ended. After Smaug had dragged him to the front gates and thrown him onto the stone-paved walkway.

Hands cradled his battered body; he would later learn that this had been his brother and sister. Later still he would learn that their mother had not survived as they had.

Smaug’s visage was clear in his mind, though, his silhouette turned bright at the edges by the fires behind him. “You may take your people,” he said, voice loud and cruel. “Whatever is left of them. They are more important to you than I ever was.” 

Thorin did not bother to protest. It would have been a waste of breath, when he already had trouble taking in air.

Whatever was left of the doors slammed closed. No one approached for fear of more magic or further attack by Smaug’s army. Most everyone were running towards the ruins of Dale, otherwise supporting or being supported by others. 

The attack was over after minutes, and in Thorin’s head ran the words Smaug had whispered into his ear. “I want you to know I will keep your gold, and keep it well. If I can have nothing of you, I will have this.”

It was difficult, impossible to stand, even with help. Thorin trusted his weight to whoever was supporting him on either side, gritting his teeth on every step he took, too tired to care when a few tears slipped past his swollen eyes.

“ _Goodbye, my Prince_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think?


	3. Chapter 01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin has to deal with many annoyances that are, in increasing order: nephews, Trolls, Orcs, Gandalf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the formatting is alright, AO3 is only half loading for me. Boo.
> 
> Additional tags/warnings for this chapter: Violence.

Employing the services of a Hobbit – a short, stout, curly-haired creature with a large appetite and little else – to be their burglar was one of the most ridiculous things Thorin had ever heard of. It was as ridiculous as sailing down a river in barrels, as ridiculous as talking animals and walking trees.

And yet here they were. He sighed. 

Looking across their campsite for the evening, he watched the newest member of the Company. His first impression of Bilbo Baggins was that he was a little too small and much too soft for the road ahead. Thorin couldn’t truthfully say that impression had changed, but it remained that the Hobbit had come strongly recommended by Gandalf… even if the Wizard apparently hadn’t seen if to inform Master Baggins of the Dwarves’ arrival. (An excellent supper had been provided regardless.)

The Hobbit had also signed the contract despite his (rightful) trepidation when casually informed he would likely face the Dragon. Thorin felt guilty about that; he should have been the one to confront Smaug. It would be a sure-fire way to conquer his inner demons. It would have been a proper close to their sordid, sorry tale. 

But that would not happen. No. Cowardly though it made him, he knew he would never be able to share the same space as Smaug even if it was to kill the other Dwarf. The reason was simple: Thorin was afraid. He was afraid of what would happen should he meet the heady gaze of those golden eyes or hear silken words drip from those sweet lips. It had never taken much for Smaug to force Thorin to his knees (within the training rooms and without).

If they were ever face to face again, Thorin feared that he would let Smaug do as he pleased, would let Smaug claim him again. He couldn’t let that happen. Not if he wanted to reclaim his home and his life.

Dwalin nudged him from his thoughts. “You’re staring at the burglar.” He snorted. “Probably frightening him with your face.”

Blinking, Thorin noted the burglar in question was sneaking him worried glances. He quickly looked away, catching the tail end of his cousin’s smirk. “I wasn’t staring at him.”

“No, you were lost in thought with your eyes conveniently in his direction.” Dwalin shifted in the grass, not once stopping the motion of his knife as he dug out dirt from under his fingernails. “He’s a bit small for me, I think. Roll over in bed and I’d squash him without knowing.”

Thorin’s jaw clenched at the implication.

“Does make good food, though. D’you think he’d cook on the road?”

“Perhaps, if you said please,” Dís said, sitting down on Thorin’s other side. “And if you promised not to eat his share of the meal.”

Dwalin’s face twisted. “How was I to know that –”

“Anything to report?” Thorin interrupted, eyebrows raised. 

Dís shook her head. “It is quiet. The Wizard is still missing, I see.”

He ignored her expression as he ignored her chastising tone. It was hardly the first time his ‘stubbornness’ had caused an argument and it would not be the last. Gandalf had chosen to storm off and that was his own business. “Who is next on perimeter watch?”

His sister pursed her lips.

Dwalin looked between the both of them. He tended to be more amused the pricklier Dís and Thorin were to each other. “It’s Glóin. He’ll chase away any enemy just by the noise he makes, though –”

“Thorin!” 

All three of them looked up as the aforementioned Glóin – also a cousin of theirs – ran towards them, iron boots landing heavily with each step. He drew in several deep breaths when he stopped, and then delivered worrying news: “There’s someone following us. More than one someone, if I’m not wrong. And I’m not.”

The King surged to his feet, Dís and Dwalin following seconds after. “Did they see you?”

“I don’t think so.” He had stopped breathing heavily (having only sprinted a short distance, after all) and swiped at his brow with the back of his hand. “But I didn’t see them either.”

“Nori,” Dís suggested, and Thorin nodded. As the rest of the Company watched (Master Baggins with a particularly worried gaze), the red-haired Dwarf was sent to investigate. He was the quietest out of all the Dwarves thanks to his _skills_ , and was the most likely to sneak up on whoever it was that’d decided to follow them.

Thorin expected Orc scouts, maybe Elves – though in that case it was more likely that they’d have noticed Glóin instead of the other way around. But the two intruders, whose hoods were held securely in each of Nori’s hands, were neither of these. In fact, they were unexpected by all and unknown only to Master Baggins.

“Hello, ‘ _Amad_ ,” said Fíli.

“Hello, _Irak’adad_ ,” said Kíli. 

Thorin found he was grateful that Dís was present – ignoring the fact that Fíli and Kíli would have never dared run away from Ered Luin if she had been there – since that meant he could safely shy away from dispensing discipline. And it also meant that he could put his face in his hand and bemoan his choice of heirs. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to name Dáin or his son as his successor.

Dís, on the other hand, stepped forward to face her sons and made it extremely clear how angry she was. “You should not be here.”

Nori released the two princes, shoving them forward lightly so they could face the full force of Dís’ glare by themselves. It was a look feared by many a Dwarf but Fíli and Kíli did not seem all that bothered by it. Unwise.

“We can’t _not_ be here, ‘Amad.” Fíli stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, presenting a unified front against their remaining parent. “Erebor is our heritage too.” They were both kitted with their favoured weapons but no packs. They must have pooled their savings and bought ponies.

“I gave you clear instructions.” Dís swallowed when Thorin reached out and touched her back with two fingers, reminding her that they needed to keep their voices down. She obliged, but her low tone somehow augmented her anger. “You were to remain in Ered Luin and receive your cousin. What will I tell Dáin, should I meet him after this? Will I have to tell him that both my sons are irresponsible –”

“Tell him that we weren’t able to sit by and do nothing!” Kíli burst out. “We’re not going to polish gemstones with Dáin while you are off fighting the Dragon!”

Thorin sighed. They were not drawing a good argument for themselves. “Both your mother and I have agreed: you are both too young to be on this mission. I thought we’d already gotten this through your thick skulls.”

Fíli bristled. Elder nephew or not, he was acting like a child. “You allowed Ori to join!” he exclaimed, pointing.

The scribe in question squeaked at being included in the argument. But – “I’m of age, and more than capable of deciding my own fate.” He frowned, glancing at his brothers. “And all initial disagreements have been settled.”

Nori snorted. Thorin thought he heard him mutter, “Disagreements, hah.” Dori just rolled his eyes.

“Well we don’t like your decision. We _are_ old enough, and responsible besides. You taught us well, ‘ _Amad_ and ‘ _Irak-adad_.” Kíli shook his head, thumbing the strap of his quiver. “Anyway, if we hadn’t come along you’d be thirteen including the burglar – mighty unlucky.”

Dís whirled her head to face Thorin, unsettling her heavy braids, mouth tight with fury. Her expression was easy to read – Thorin had lived with her and her sons for many years – and he nodded quickly. As much as he’d helped her raise Fíli and Kíli after their father’s death, Dís was their primary caregiver and much better than he was when it came to handling them. They respected him but they _listened_ to Dís. Or they had. 

She took her sons a ways away, close enough that they were still in view and far enough that all that could be heard of their voices was a low murmur. All three had heavy frowns, none looked willing to back down.

Thorin sank back to his place on the ground with a groan. He did not envy his sister or his nephews. He’d been put in both positions in his time and relished neither.

It seemed that dinner had proceeded despite the interruption and Thorin accepted his bowl of hare stew with a nod. But even after handing the other bowl to Dwalin, the Hobbit still hovered before them. Thorin swallowed his mouthful of potato – with some difficulty, as it was a larger piece than he’d expected – while trying to maintain his usual dignity. He wasn’t quite sure how well he succeeded.

“Is there a problem, Master Baggins?”

“Ah, not a problem as such, no.” He had his hands behinds his back and atrocious posture hidden under a still-pristine jacket. Thorin briefly wondered at the skill of Hobbit cloth makers; there was no reason for anyone to wear what looked like lined velvet unless they were sure of its durability. “I had a question.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, prompt wordless.

“Those two Dwarves are your… nephews?”

As the question was exceptionally simple (almost as simple as the Hobbit seemed), Thorin merely inclined his head. He wondered if Dís reference to them as her sons had given that information away.

Master Baggins laughed nervously, realising how silly the question was, but did not scurry away. It seemed he had more. Hopefully they were less silly. “They don’t look too young for the quest. It’s not my business obviously, beg pardon, but that’s what I think.”

Thorin waved a hand towards the ground, inviting the burglar to sit. Master Baggins obligingly did, after choosing a spot that he deemed least dirty. Thorin studied the stew in his bowl for a moment and collected his words. “At what age are Hobbits considered to be adults, Master Baggins?”

“Please, call me Bilbo,” was the quick reply and, to Thorin’s amusement, the tips of his pointed ears coloured becomingly. “That is, Hobbits come of age when we’re 33.”

Dwalin choked on his mouthful of food. Thorin was surprised as well (and grateful he’d not raised his spoon to his mouth). Perhaps he could discuss the specificity of this number with Master Baggins – Bilbo – at a future date. For now he had questions to address. “For Dwarves to be considered of age, we almost three times that number.”

It took seconds for Master Baggins to get through that mental arithmetic, and his mouth formed an ‘o’ of astonishment when he did. “How long do Dwarves _live_?”

That was harmless enough information. “Most go past two centuries, though there have been some who have reached three.”

His hazel eyes went wide. “My goodness, I… just… goodness.” Master B – Bilbo licked his lips and leaned forward, curiosity seeming to enable him to look past whatever reservations he’d felt that stopped him approaching Thorin before this. “Hobbits can only manage half that length, about a hundred if that.” He hugged his knees to his chest, curly-haired feet catching Thorin’s attention for a moment. “But back to the point; what age are, are…” He hesitated, then hazarded, “Filip?”

“Fíli. And Kíli is the dark-haired one. Fíli has only just passed his eighth decade, and Kíli is younger by six years.”

“Five,” grunted Dwalin.

“Five years.” Thorin cleared his throat, looking down to hide the warmth he could feel in his cheeks. He mashed a piece of carrot between the side of the bowl and the back of his spoon. “They are capable warriors but Dis decided – rightly – that they are not yet ready for this undertaking, even if they are my heirs.”

“Your heirs?” Master Baggins asked, and Thorin winced inwardly. He hadn’t meant to mention that. “You have no children of your own?”

“No.”

“Why not?” was the next question, and both Thorin and Dwalin stiffened. Unaware of their discomfort (but not uncaringly so), Bilbo shuffled forward a little. “I don’t have children of my own, of course, nor even a spouse but I’d’ve thought that a King…”

Thorin rested his bowl on his knee, very consciously trying not to grip it too tightly. Perhaps Hobbits had different ideas of privacy, but even then Master Baggins was not at fault. He was merely curious and obviously had no idea about Thorin’s history and how sensitive this particular topic was –

He was saved from having to come up with a believable answer by a rumbling sound.

The Hobbit’s cheeks were bright red. “I, er, I’m sorry – didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. I tend to get a little carried away when I ask questions, you know – I’ve never met a Dwarf before you see, much less a King so. If anything was out of line I would –” 

Thorin held up a hand. “No offense was incurred, Master Baggins.” He let himself relax marginally. “There is nothing to forgive.” (Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin noted that Dis was embracing her sons. Good. One less thing to worry about.)

However, Master Baggins remained unconvinced and looked ready to heap more apologies.

“Truly, _Bilbo_. Pray don’t mention it.” There had been no malice in his question, only earnest inquisitiveness. Were Hobbits even capable of being malicious? He did not think so. “Though perhaps you ought to claim your share of dinner before someone else does.” Thorin held up his half-full bowl pointedly, and couldn’t help his smile when Baggins – Bilbo – rushed to his feet.

“That would be best,” he agreed. “Thank you for entertaining my questions.”

Thorin inclined his head as best he could while having to look up at Bilbo. “It was no trouble. You are welcome to approach me again in future, should you have more.”

He was treated to a smile – the first he had seen on Bilbo’s face. Or, no, he had been smiling after he’d caught up with the Company with the contract in hand, but that’d been directed to Balin. Now Thorin was able to observe the deep dimples in both cheeks. “Thanks indeed, O’ King.”

“Thorin,” he offered, and Bilbo’s smile grew.

As he trotted off to the fire and Bombur’s pot of stew, Dwalin turned to Thorin. His bowl was scraped clean and left on the ground by his feet. “You are most generous with the Halfling,” his cousin and friend remarked, faint wonder lacing his tone.

“He means no harm.”

Dwalin snorted. “Don’t think he could do harm even with the proper weapons.” His blue eyes tracked Bilbo’s movements. The Hobbit had settled against a tree, digging into his dinner with gusto. “Give him a knife and he’d be able to fillet a fish, but not much else.”

Dis plonked down on the grass. “He will have to be taught, then.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows at her, having seen that Fíli and Kíli had been allowed to approach Bombur for food. His fondness for them was tempered by a weary feeling. He did not remember being half as trying as either of them.

“They will stay for now,” said his sister. The lines at the corners of her mouth were tense. “When we reach a safe place, we will leave them there.”

Wordlessly, Thorin handed her the remainder of his dinner. With more mouths to feed, there was no point eating more than he needed, and both he and Dís were accustomed to rationing their own shares. “What is your definition of a ‘safe place’?” he asked.

“If we are to follow the Wizard’s advice, Rivendell.” Dís rolled her eyes at his expression. “I do not like it any more than you do, Thorin, but Gandalf’s idea has merit. And if you think any of us will let a few Elves stop us, you are wrong.”

That was true. Still distasteful. Better to change the subject. “It would be suitable punishment for the lads,” he remarked, smirking. 

“What, staying with weed-eaters?” Dwalin shook his head. “That would be torture even for the bravest of –”

“Thorin!”

The three of them looked up. Now it was Bofur who jogged towards them, hat bouncing merrily on his head. One glance at his expression was enough to have them on their feet, this time with their hands on their preferred weapons (and food bowls roughly discarded). “What is it?”

“I went to… ah, tend to my business in the bushes, and on the way back I figured I’d go check on the ponies – only there’re four less than supposed to be an’ –”

Dwalin spat out a curse. “Did you see who stole them?”

Bofur’s face was grim. “Trolls.”

* * *

Having to surrender arms was bad enough, but being trussed up and stuffed into sacks had been undignified to say the least. Thorin supposed that there was a mithril lining: he hadn’t been forced into his skivvies. No, that was something to lord over Dwalin in choice circumstances, especially since they all survived and the Trolls had turned to stone.

After cursorily making sure all of the Company were unbound and unhurt, Thorin first went to his immediate family. Kíli was complaining loudly about his newest bruise, courtesy a royal boot. Dís didn’t seem at all sympathetic and Fíli didn’t bother to stifle his chuckles.

“How was I supposed to know the Hobbit was trying to buy time?”

Dís plucked a twig from Fíli’s hair. “I will grant that neither of you have met him,” she said, voice ever dripping with patience, “but surely his plan became clear when he said none of us was fit for consumption.”

Thorin carefully did not mention that he’d briefly – _very briefly!_ – entertained the notion that Master – that Bilbo _had_ turned. But he didn’t seem stupid enough to parley with Trolls of all creatures even if he’d never ventured far from his round green door. 

“He caught on in the end, with some help,” Thorin said instead, weathering Kíli’s dark glare.

“I would rather they’d not been in the situation in the first place.” Dís rubbed her wrists. “Though…” She sighed. “You fought well, both of you.”

Thorin felt his clench with pride as both his nephews – they’d been Dwarflings but a few years ago, surely – smiled brilliantly. They exchanged a short glance before engulfing their mother in a hug.

“Ach, not so rough my lads.” They couldn’t see it, but Dís was also smiling and that made Thorin’s heart clench again. 

He stroked his fingers along Dís’ main braid, catching her eye, and then walked away before he was also caught up in a mess of limbs. He meant to check up on the Hobbit who had saved them.

Bilbo was easy enough to find, standing off to the side, apart from the family clumps the Dwarves had naturally formed. He had carefully folded his soiled jacket and appeared to be fingering a tear in his shirt with no small amount of distaste. Thorin found his expression endearing. The fact that he could wrinkle his nose at the damage to his clothes when he’d almost been ripped _himself_ , well that was… that was certainly a trait new to Thorin. So far Thorin’s view of him held true: Bilbo was the most unique person he had ever met.

He forgot his sleeve when Thorin approached, smiling up at him. “Thorin. Are you alright?”

“That is a question I should be asking of you, burglar.”

“Oh, _don’t_.” When Thorin tilted his head questioningly, Bilbo rushed to clarify. “I mean, honestly, I’m not a burglar or a thief or any of those things – I told you all that in Bag End. I am a Hobbit, and even if Hobbits are good at sneaking, that doesn’t make us criminals. Or it doesn’t make me one.”

“That was not my intention.” He was using it as a title: Bilbo _had_ been hired as the Company’s burglar, even if only to burgle information on the Dragon and whether he yet lived. “Even so, are you unharmed?”

He was nodded at. Thorin saw him (unconsciously?) touching the tear in his shirt. “Just shaken up, mostly. First experience with Trolls and all that, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.” Bilbo smiled crookedly. “I think I should thank you for laying down your weapons.”

“I ought to thank you for saving our lives.” When Bilbo tried to brush this off, Thorin overrode him. “It is only the truth. Gandalf was right about your quick-wittedness.” He grimaced. “It seems that is in short supply.”

Bilbo’s laugh was as light and as clear as a bell’s peal. “Be kind to your kinsmen.”

“Only if they deserve such a thing,” Thorin chuckled in turn. It was fortunate that this Hobbit – that Bilbo was proving to be good company. He would fit in more easily with the others.

Bilbo shook his head, a smile playing about his plush-looking lips. He looked about to say something but Gandalf stepped up to them and leaned on his staff expectantly. 

Thorin squinted up at him. “Where did you go, if I may ask?”

“To look ahead.”

“What brought you back?”

“Looking behind.”

Thorin caught the pointedness of that comment and inclined his head. Even with Bilbo’s delaying, they’d likely have been killed if not for Gandalf’s intervention. He could concede that.

“Nasty business.” The Wizard tapped his staff against one of the now-stone Trolls, then looked over the rest of the Dwarves. He appeared to be counting them off, muttering numbers under his breath. “Still, they’re all in one piece.”

“Thanks to your Hobbit,” Thorin said, narrowly managing to avoid using ‘burglar’ instead. 

If Gandalf was surprised by this comment he didn’t show it. Bilbo, on the other hand, had coloured to the tips of his ears.

“He had the nous to play for time,” Gandalf said lightly, apparently enjoying the way his remark made Bilbo even more uncomfortable. The corners of his eyes were crinkled with his mirth when he exchanged glances with Thorin.

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Yes, well, we’re all safe as you said. That’s what’s important.” He looked over his shoulder at the Trolls that had threatened to rend his limbs from his body. “Do you know where they came from, Gandalf?”

He was silent as he thought. “They must have come down from the Ettenmoors.”

“This far south?” Thorin asked sceptically. He knew the basic layout of this area – even if he left navigating for others – and that seemed unlikely. There’d been no known sightings of Trolls here. Gandalf only shrugged, looking troubled.

“Well they can’t have travelled here in one go; having to hide from the sunlight and all that,” Bilbo pointed out, practical. “And one of them mentioned eating – eating a farmer.” That explained the destroyed farmhouse they’d camped by.

Thorin nodded, eyes already scanning the ground for tracks. He was not as good a tracker as some of the Rangers he’d met, but Trolls left very distinct trails, enough for even the simplest minds to follow. “There must be a cave nearby.”

When they found it, Thorin hadn’t really expected to find such treasures within. The Trolls had either managed to find a cave already filled with gold and weapons, otherwise they’d stayed long enough to ambush whoever had been carrying them in the first place. Such a waste either way. (Skill was skill, even if Elves had forged the swords that he and Gandalf and Bilbo now carried.)

Coming across another (even more insane) Wizard had been a surprise, and a more pleasant one than the Orcs that came after, especially since that same brown-cloaked Wizard had willingly acted as a distraction. Sprinting across almost open ground had been a poor plan, but without ponies they’d had no choice. And while Thorin was perfectly willing to stand and fight when they’d finally been cornered, Gandalf’s shortcut had been a welcome alternative.

Ending up in Rivendell, however, had not.

Damn that Wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some things have changed, though the core remains the same. Perhaps I ought to say outright that Azog was killed by Dain at Azanulbizar. One less thing to worry about.
> 
> What did you guys think of the changes?

**Author's Note:**

> Story should update every two days, barring unforeseen circumstances. Links to art will be posted along with their respective chapters.  
> A masterpost with links will be provided when the whole fic is finished.
> 
> Do tell me what you think about this fic!


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